


Suffer Little Children

by FopMistress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Arguing, Birthday, Child Abuse, Childhood, Cunnilingus, F/M, Girls with Guns, Grief/Mourning, Phone Sex, Psychology, Sexual Content, Swearing, Texting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FopMistress/pseuds/FopMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the third and final part of the Sherlock/Molly work, known to my readers as The Mischief. </p><p>I am grateful to the Internet Watch Foundation and CEOP websites for the research I did into catching paedophiles. I am sure that Sherlock would fully participate in this and bring them rightfully down with his super sleuthing. </p><p>I have always thought there was more to Molly than the series has given her and I wanted her to be as brave and bright as I always suspected she was. It's Sherlock's birthday and do Molly's plans for his day actually go to plan? Of course they don't...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suffer Little Children

Sherlock’s mobile, which was on his bedside table, rang out. He was lying on his front, the quilt pulled up so that he wasn‘t even showing from under it. His eyes popped open and without getting up, shot an arm out and grabbed his phone. It was the middle of the night. Who the HELL was phoning him at this ungodly hour? The photo of the caller was of an attractive brunette  in her early 30s in a bath, arms crossed to spare her blushes and with masses of bubbles to create a saucy 50s retro feel. She was looking at the camera with a come hither look. Especially as the photographer had been naked and about to jump in the bath with her.

  
“Morning Molly. What time is it? It‘s the middle of the night!”  
  
Sherlock had taken the photo of Molly in her bath . He had taken it after he had heard her squeals of  I’m in my birthday suit you can’t do that and promised that he just wanted a sweet photo of her for his phone.  
  
“It’s just past 7, Sher. Were you sleeping?”  
  
“Of course I was. I’ve been up most of the night researching methods to entrap paedophiles and how to break paedophile rings.”  
  
By now Sherlock was upright in bed and wide awake.  
  
“Sorry. I’d forgotten you were doing that. I thought I’d phone you before I got ready for work. I did have a reason for waking you up!”  
  
And then it clicked. _Of course._  
  
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sherlock, happy birthday to yooooooooo-u!”  
  
“Thanks darling, although your singing sounds like  fingers being scraped down a blackboard to be honest.”  
  
“You’re so charming. Not.”  
  
“I appreciate the sentiment, though. Did you say you were coming round tonight?”  
  
“Yes. At about 5. We can order pizza or something and just have a quiet one.”  
  
Molly was trying not to giggle. She had a plan that Sherlock didn‘t know about, or rather hadn‘t guessed at. Yet. She knew that he would work out what was going on but she wanted to at least keep the cake secret as the cake would be awesome.  
  
“That sounds absolutely fine. I don’t want to go out for my birthday. It’s just another day and being 35 isn’t a special age or anything, just another year.”  
  
“Alright, Mr Boring. So what are you doing today? You did mention a case a couple of nights ago.”  
  
“As you know I am researching methods to entrap paedophiles and their behaviours. The CEOP agency have asked me to trace the whereabouts of the main perpetrator in a group. I can’t tell you any more as it has to be kept secret for security reasons. They have spent months trying to arrest this man and I’ve been working on it for about a week. They want to know where he lives and works, if he actually does. I won’t be involved in the actual arrest but their investigations have so far been fruitless and they have heard about me from Lestrade apparently. I am confident I will be able to conclusively locate him today, get a photo of him and pass the evidence on. It‘s unfortunately out of my hands then. I have to miss the really fun part.”  
  
“I can’t believe anyone would want to even do that sort of thing. It’s horrible. The poor kids. You don’t have to look at anything nasty do you?”  
  
“No darling and I’m actually glad I don’t. There is a specialist team who do look at suspect material of that nature and they are the only legally authorised people in the UK to be able to do it. I’m not easily dismantled or shocked by the worst of human behaviour as you know but even I have my limits. They apparently have only a limited time working in that department due to the distressing nature of the images and usually have to have therapy afterwards. I’m not heartless despite what everyone seems to think.”  
  
“I know you’re not, Sher.”  
  
Molly was Sherlock’s first love and although they were an very odd couple - the girly, friendly pathologist and the sociopath intellectual Consultant Detective - Sherlock was the sour to Molly’s sweet. They had been together for nine months and in that time, they had established an unconventional but loving relationship.

  
Sherlock had learned that period pain was a Big Deal and that a lecture on dysmenorrhoea which was caused by contractions of the uterus which were generated  by prostaglandins and were _completely natural_ would result in Molly yelling **shut the fuck up** and having a remote control flung at him and also that mass market films like War Horse made women sob even though it made him shake his head in disbelief and bark for God’s sake woman, it’s not REAL, there’s no blood, severed heads flying about and hardly any blood, the film is shit have some popcorn and calm down!   Molly had learned that if they were out of an evening and a rose seller approached Sherlock, he would loudly denounce roses as a cheap and hackneyed expression of romance and that the product was overpriced junk and moreover, he did not have to resort to clichés to show the lady he loved how he felt about her. Much the same went for hand holding in public, a quick cuddle in a dimly lit street and feeding each other pudding.  
  
That being said, he had often surprised her in a good way, such as the time he bought her a charm bracelet with the help of John and Mrs Hudson and the time Molly had to have a smear test and Molly had unexpectedly found Sherlock sitting in her doctor’s waiting room, sneering at a copy of Pick Me Up, ready to take her home because she had sounded nervous on the phone. She had laughed until she cried when he said that he should have carried out the procedure as her vagina  was very much a personal friend by now and he would have worked out how to use his tongue to swipe her cervix instead of a speculum. After Molly had calmed down, she realised that Sherlock wasn’t actually joking.

  
“Maybe it’s just as well you woke me up, I have rather a lot to do. There are parts of the investigative process that are very interesting. Did you know that they study the images for identifying features such as wall paper and plugs? They can trace the country the wallpaper was bought in and a two pin socket can denote the Continent and a smaller three pin from ours, the USA. And the technology these bastards use is getting more and more sophisticated. They encrypt  innocent looking photos for instance - “  
  
“Sher, you remind me of Professor Tolson at Uni. He used to go on and on first thing in the morning in his Anatomy tutorials too. How do you wake up so quickly?”  
  
“Darling, if you were in bed with me it wouldn’t just be my brain that would be fully awake. It’s such a shame that it is my birthday and I’m all alone. Can‘t you go to work a little bit later and come over to see me? That photo of you on my phone has made me really want to kiss your breasts and flick my tongue round your nipples.”  
  
“Oh Sherlock, you’re terrible. I’d _love_ to but it’s because I’m getting away early tonight I have to go in very early now.”  
  
“But you do love it when I‘m bad and I adore it when you are too. I would love it if you were wet and ready for me lying face down on my bed right now.”  
  
“Sher, I really can’t wait to see you later. I do have to get ready for work though!”  
  
Molly’s voice was hoarse and she knew she would be thinking of what Sherlock had just said all day.  
  
“How disappointing, never mind. Anyway - I need a coffee now, I must get going. I will see you later darling, at 5. I love you.”

  
“Love you too, Sher. I hope you find that horrible man. Be careful. Bye!”  
  
Molly hung up, smiling. She had a plan for Sherlock’s birthday and she had enlisted the help of both John and Mrs Hudson. She knew that organising a meal in a restaurant was a waste of time as he would hate the forced jollity in a public place and besides, he normally just picked at his food. She had only been able to persuade him to go out for three meals in the entire time they had been together and one of those times was for her own birthday.  She had decided on a small birthday tea at 221B Baker Street with Mrs Hudson and John. Molly had found that the one meal Sherlock had eaten with gusto was her own home made chilli. John had bought the ingredients and stored them in Mrs Hudson’s fridge, Molly would go to Baker Street early and let herself in to cook. Mrs Hudson had made a birthday cake to Molly‘s specifications. John’s job was to get Sherlock out of the way to give her time to prepare.  
  
It should be said at this point that Sherlock had astounded her about a month before by handing her a key, saying that this was in no way an invitation to move in but as he worked such erratic hours, she could let herself in and wait if need be as it was rude to have her waiting on the doorstep as he had once done. She realised this was a major gesture on Sherlock’s part and was about as much as he ever would do to seal their relationship. She had reciprocated, knowing as well as Sherlock did that if they did actually move in together their relationship would flounder very quickly. The balance they had struck of love, commitment yet separation worked well for them. Why fix it? Her  Birthday Game was on.  
  
  
Sherlock had thought out the day carefully. The man he was to trace, Trevor Bennett, lived in a sink estate in Peckham in a high rise flat. He would go there on the pretence of sticking takeaway leaflets through letterboxes. His disguise was considered. He had bought a plain dark green Superdry hoodie and matching t-shirt, some blue faded jeans and black and white Converse. Hardly his usual attire but it would mean he would blend in. He got showered and changed, wrinkling his nose at the hoodie, but at least he could stash his gun in the pocket.  Sherlock had been told that he had to do this alone so that minimum attention would be brought to himself.  Sherlock needed an opinion on the disguise first. He took a photo of himself and sent it to Molly.  
 **  
Disguise for today? What do you think? SH**  
  
 **Wicked  Sher! Green brings out your eyes. BTW your bum looks hot in jeans you don’t wear them enough IMHO xx**  
  
Sherlock smiled slightly. It worked for her at least then.  
 **  
Thank you darling. I’ll let you take them off later. SH.**  
  
  
What about John? He was sitting tucking into toast and tea and raised his eyebrows at the sight of Sherlock Gone Street.  
  
“God, you look….different.”  
  
“Different?  The only redeeming features about this hoodie are that it’s warm and I can put my gun in the pocket. Oh - and Molly thinks it brings out the colour of my eyes.”  
  
“And she would know I suppose. You do look a lot younger actually. It’s not as bad as you think. It wouldn’t do you any harm to wear more casual gear occasionally.”  
  
“But I aim to maintain a professional façade at all times. How the Hell can I do THAT in a…hoodie?  
  
“Alright, maybe not. But I know you’ve got black jeans? They still look pretty smart.”  
  
“Molly just said I should wear them more often actually. I might do.”  
  
“Cup of tea, Casanova? Toast?”  
  
Sherlock glared at him. “Coffee please. One slice. I’m hardly Casanova, am I. I am 35 today and I have had only one sexual partner.”  
  
John shook his head and went to make more toast. “If you could hear the noise coming from your bedroom some nights! Talk about a dark horse. I know you’ve only recently figured out that your tackle is not just for peeing and wanking but seriously, come on. No wonder Molly looks so happy all of the time. Oh, and happy birthday.”  
  
“Do you really have to be quite so vulgar? Especially if you‘re referring to Molly?”  
  
“Molly’s not the problem. YOU are. Can you maybe turn the volume down a bit? Here’s your toast.”  
  
Sherlock sat down and spread butter and raspberry jam on to it and ate. John got up to make tea and coffee.  
  
“I think I understand, I’m not getting at you. I did have to say something though. Do you feel that when you’re with Molly, you can actually completely let go?”  
  
“Yes. But I imagine noisy sex is embarrassing. I’ll do my best to be more restrained., sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine, forget it. Are you sure you don’t want me to come along with you today?”  
  
“I would normally, but CEOP want as little outside involvement as possible. I’m just going along to get some definite data on Bennett.”  
  
“Are you still on for Waterstones at 3 at Trafalgar Square?”  
  
“Yes. What are you going to let me pick again for my birthday?”  
  
“Anything you want up to fifty quid.”  
  
“Generous, thank you. You don’t want me to go straight home because you are up to something with Molly though.”  
  
“What makes you think that?”  
  
“Conversations between the two of you that suddenly stop when I come in the room, you taking bags of shopping up to Mrs Hudson’s, do I need to go on?”  
  
“Yes, Molly HAS got something planned and I’ve helped her. I’m only saying because you know bloody everything about everyone and what everyone’s doing but I’m not telling you any more because Molly would be so disappointed. Try and look surprised, will you?”  
  
“Is it a big thing she has planned or a small one and has she invited Mycroft?”  
  
“Yes to the small bit and no to Mycroft. You will like it, she’s really thought about it.”  
  
“I _hate_ parties, oh God. It’s not a party is it?”  
  
“NO! Look, she’s going to cook something you like for dinner and only Mrs Hudson, Molly and I will be there. Sherlock, you WILL appreciate it and you WILL look surprised. I wish I had a girlfriend as thoughtful  and caring as she was. You’re so bloody lucky.”  
  
Sherlock realised that John was pained. “I am. I’ll look suitably chuffed to bits, how’s that?”  
  
“Put it this way, if you don’t you won’t be sounding so pleased in your bedroom for a bit.”  
  
“You’ve got a point.”  
  
 He had got his Homeless Network to track Bennett’s movements over the last week. He seemed to be a recluse, going to a local shop to buy food and  cigarettes first thing in the morning and once to his local Job Centre to sign on. Otherwise he had hardly gone out of his flat. On the way to Peckham he would have to stop by and see Dirty Davey, one of this most useful contacts. He was an alcoholic of about 50 originally from Newcastle who had a brindle Whippet called Blue. He preferred being paid in White Lightning cider for himself and tins of dog meat as well as money and had been very useful on this investigation. He had incidentally earned the Dirty sobriquet by stinking to high heaven. So he would have to visit an off licence, find a shop and find a cash machine too. He stuck his keys in the pocket of his jeans, his cash card and his mobile and tucked his gun in the pocket of the hoodie and did a final pat down check. Good to go.  He tugged the hood up and left.  
  
Dirty Davey usually begged outside King’s Cross station every day wrapped in a filthy khaki sleeping bag with Blue coiled protectively around him and a baseball cap on the pavement. He saw Sherlock approaching and waved. Sherlock had deliberately planned to see him early so that he wouldn’t be incoherent. If Davey knew he had a job to do, he stayed sober.  
  
“Howya doin’ our lad?”  
  
“Not bad thanks Davey. What did you get for me?”  
  
Sherlock hunkered down to fondle Blue’s ears. Her tail gave a friendly thump-thump.  
  
Davey dug out his old school Nokia and fiddled with it before handing it to Sherlock.  
  
“I just got this yesterday.”  
  
There was a grainy photo of a greasy haired obese man with a cigarette in his mouth outside a Job Centre. He wore a black waterproof jacket with a hood and black tracksuit bottoms with dirty white trainers.  
  
“That’s yer man. Right little charmer, ain’t he? Nowt worse than fiddling with bairns, no excuse for it. He should have his cock cut off and stuck in his mouth. Do you want me to send this to your phone?”  
  
“Yes please. Thank you so much, it’s taken us long enough to get this. I’ve got your payment in the bag, do check it over. There‘s fifty quid and an extra twenty for your trouble.”  
  
Davey took the Tesco plastic bag  and rummaged in it. “Champion, that’s good of you. So what are you up to now?”  
  
Sherlock stood up, trying to hide the fact that the man’s effluvia was making him feel queasy. “I’m off to Peckham to get some photos and make sure he does live where I think he does and get some evidence and then pass that on. I’ll see you around Davey, thanks again.”  
  
“All the best. Stay lucky.”  
  
Sherlock left Davey as soon as he got to Peckham, he banged on a fried chicken takeaway shop’s door. Roughening his accent, he said that he was there to deliver the leaflets to the Asian man who answered the door. He disappeared and came back with a holdall crammed with leaflets. Sherlock took them and headed off towards the estate where Bennett lived. It was a dreary place with broken bottles on the ground, piles of dog shit and badly spelt graffiti. He felt his gun. He knew that if he wasn’t careful he would be shot or stabbed without a minute’s second thought. He started off shoving a few leaflets through the letterboxes of  a few of the main door flats, watching all the time. A pinch faced young mother in a tracksuit pushing a squalling baby in a buggy glanced at him in passing but other than that, he didn’t attract any attention. He worked his way towards the block of flats where he knew Bennett lived. He had been told by the Homeless Network that the postman generally did his deliveries at round about 10:30-11am here and sure enough, the postman appeared.  
  
“Hey mate. Let me in will you? I‘ve got to get rid of these. I know how you feel!”  
  
“No worries, in you go.”  
  
Sherlock slipped in and neatly side stepped a pile of dog shit. Christ, what was it with dog shit? He had been told to watch out for discarded needles too. He got into the lift which stank of urine and was informed via Tippex on the lift’s wall that Bethany is a skanky slappa call her for a shag. Charming. No thank you. He thought of Molly and smiled as the lift opened. Right, Bennett was in one of these. He stuck more leaflets into the three doors, pressing his ear carefully to each door. He discounted one door as it was very clean and there was a little doormat. Clearly an old lady’s flat and trying to take  as much pride in her miserable surroundings as she could. He could hear a screaming toddler from another, not that one. There was one left. He saw that the door handle wasn’t as bright as the others so it wasn’t used terribly much, signifying an occupant who was a loner. He pressed his ear to the door and could just make out what sounded like some sort of computer game. He heard a loud hacking cough (heavy smoker) and then some heavy thumping footfall on a thin floor covering (obese male). An inside door banged and then after a couple of minutes the toilet flushed. Sherlock peeped through the letter box and could just see him. The man in the flat matched the photo that Dirty Davey had got. He wore a grey t-shirt which barely covered his massive paunch and a pair of dark blue tracksuit bottoms. His feet were dirty and bare. Seizing the moment, Sherlock shoved a leaftet through the door and switched the video function on his phone on. Bennett headed along the tiny hallway towards the door and Sherlock ducked out of sight. Bennett bent to pick it up and read it. Sherlock inched open the letterbox and filmed him. Bennett threw the leaflet away with a muttered “shit as usual” and lumbered out of sight. Sherlock clicked stop and save on his phone. This was what he had come for and could e-mail it off when he got back. Back to an ordered life, back to his flat, back to a lady who would quietly stroke his hair when he  put his head on her lap. Not that he would admit that to anyone, not even John.  
  
Sherlock loped off towards the Tube station, tossing the bag of leaflets in a bin. Bennett watched him head off and didn’t take his eyes off him all the while. He wanted to know who had been loitering around his flat and why. Time to call in a few overdue favours.  
  
Molly was busy stirring a big pot of bubbling chilli in the kitchen at 221B Baker Street and the smell was making her hungry. She tasted it, frowned and added a dash of Worcestershire Sauce, stirred again and then tasted. Not too bad at all. She turned the heat down and left it. It would be another 15 minutes before it would be ready for later. Her Ipod Touch was hooked up to her portable speakers and she had it on shuffle. She had Florence and the Machine, Lady Gaga, Queen, Meat Loaf, Coldplay and Boyzone so far and then came on, THE song that she knew she would always associate with Sherlock - Time Is Running Out by Muse. Her colleague Simon at St Bart’s had lent her Muse’s Absolution CD in an attempt to get her listening to more rock and she had actually loved it - possibly because it reminded her a little of the Queen tapes her Dad played in the car as a kid as it had the same sense of theatricality and overblown pomp. She had listened to the song on the Tube the morning of the night that she and Sherlock had plotted how to save him from Moriarty and they had slept together for the first time. By the time Matt Bellamy was asking  how did it come to this, it made massive, massive sense when she played it again the next morning. The situation, the adored, the adoration, the confusion, the fascination.  
  
And then that night after The Fall  she had got home to Sherlock waiting for her in her flat and he had pinned her against the wall as soon as she got in and nearly kissed her out of her boots. “I’ve been desperate to see you, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night” he breathed. “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye, darling. I needed time to think, I need you now. You were terrific today, I couldn‘t have done this without you.” He started to kiss her again and Molly was lost in him and sighed when his fingers moved down, slipped in and found her already wet clitoris and played with it. She arched herself against them and couldn’t stop moaning. “Do you want me?” he murmured. “Because I want you now. Last night …I need MORE. Oh Christ, Molly. Have you any idea what you did to me? I want you on top this time, I want to watch you. Please”.  She nodded quickly. “Come on then.” Sherlock took her hand and led her into her bedroom. They both quickly undressed, Molly caught Sherlock’s eye and they both laughed, excited, elated and relieved they were both still alive. And this was the surest way to prove they were both just that.  
  
“Sher - the condoms?”  
  
Sherlock whipped them out from his jacket pocket and threw them on the bed. “No interruptions this time.” He then sank to his knees in front of her, gently stroked back her pubic hair and flicked his tongue steadily until her knees nearly buckled. “I can smell you and you smell intoxicating” he purred between licks. She ran her fingers through his hair, eyes closed, feeling the pleasure build up. He could feel her legs shaking and held her steady as she shuddered into ecstasy.  “Ready?” Sherlock whispered, gently wiping his mouth which was glistening. He sat on the edge of the bed reached for the box of condoms, ripping a packet open. “Here, I’ll help you, watch.” Molly had put it on for him the night before and Sherlock watched carefully as she rolled it on him. “ Sorry…I will learn.” He laid on the bed and she straddled him, lowering herself on him and she gasped as he filled her. He laid his hands on her hips and held her, staring up into her eyes as she rode him. She leaned down to kiss him and she could taste herself on his lips. She moved back and he reached to take a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it, listening to her cries. He thrust upwards to meet her, faster and faster until he yelled out her name and fell back onto the bed. She thought he looked beautiful in that moment and her eyes filled with tears. Before last night, no-one had ever called out her name before. Eventually they dozed off, worn out from the drama of the day. Molly was woken by Toby the cat scratching at her bedroom door and yowling to be fed. She turned to see that Sherlock had been propped up on one elbow, watching her sleep. “Have you been awake for long?” “A little while. I will come back to you once all this fuss has died down. I’m not promising I’ll be the best boyfriend. That sounds a bit strange. I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend before and I’m not sure what to do or what to make of all this.  But I will at least try.” “Sher, that’s all I want, all I’ve ever wanted. We’ve made it through today, it’s a start.”

 

“By the way, are you going to feed that wretched animal?”  
  
She shook her head. Oh God, it was spinning now. That song brought back scorching memories.  And plus, it was miles cooler than the previous song she had picked - Here With Me by Dido.  
  
  
“Coo-ee!” Mrs Hudson appeared with Sherlock’s cake on a tray. Sitting beside it were two candles in the shape of a 3 and a 5. “I’ve just finished it off now. What do you think?”  
  
“That’s brilliant! Oh wow, it’s got all the sweets I used to buy as a little kid on it. Thank you so much, you‘ve been great.”  
  
The cake was chocolate and topped with penny sweets from Sherlock’s childhood - white mice, jazzies, cola cubes, strawberry laces, red and blacks, Smarties, fizzy cola bottles, flying saucers and more.  
  
Molly hugged Mrs Hudson.  
  
“I just want tonight to be just right for Sher. He loves these kinds of sweets although he wouldn’t really own up to it.”  
  
“I have quite a soft spot for Sherlock and also John, you know. Sherlock can be such a funny old grump at times but he’s a good boy at the end of the day, dear. I’m glad that he eats up your chilli. I’ve never quite worked out if he sees food as just something he needs to have or he’s simply fussy.”  
  
“He’s a law unto himself, Mrs Hudson. I’ve only been out for about three meals with him as it’s like taking a toddler out at times. In fact a toddler would be less trouble. I do love him though.”  
  
“That’s nice dear. I think you’re very good for him. You’ve rubbed his corners off a little bit. Do I need to buy myself a hat yet?”  
  
Molly looked startled and then helplessly giggled.  
  
“Oh God no. We’ve both agreed that if we lived together then we’d last two minutes. Giving each other plenty space really works and you know what he’s like, being round him is hard work. He’s stomped out of my flat in a huff a few times and jumped into a taxi but then I usually get a phone call by the time he gets back here to say sorry. Never to admit that he’s been an idiot though.   He does drive me up the wall at times but I suppose most men do, not just him. At least he’s always honest even though he can be so rude, if he says he will do something he will do it and he’s never boring.”  
  
  
“Mrs Hudson, shhhh! I can hear them.”  
  
Molly could hear the footsteps up the stairs. Everything was ready. The table in the living room was stacked with plates, napkins, little bowls of cheese, jalapenos, guacamole, sour cream and refried beans, salad and spoons. Her present to Sherlock was sitting on a chair with her card and Mrs Hudson’s card was sitting on top. What if he thought it was all too much of a fuss to make? She had a stab of self doubt. No, it will be fine. The door opened and Sherlock and John walked in, Sherlock carrying a Waterstones bag which looked heavy.  
  
“Happy birthday!” Molly rushed forward and hugged Sherlock who quickly hugged her back. “Sherlock, don’t worry. It’s not much, just a little birthday tea for you. Do you like it? Please say you do!” Sherlock smirked and stroked her hair. “I’d guessed you were up to something. It’s very thoughtful…kind. Yes, kind.” He paused and he was catapulted back to being 6 and being led away to his bedroom by Nanny. Mycroft was 10, it was his birthday and had been allowed to have some boys round for tea. He could just see down the hall the boys excitedly tucking into sandwiches and sausage rolls and there was trifle for afters. Sherlock loved trifle. Nanny had  explained to Sherlock that as he couldn’t play nicely like other good little boys and girls he had to go and have his dinner alone in his room. Sherlock had pulled free of Nanny’s hand and ran into the garden to run behind the large rhododendron bush that was his safe place to cry furious tears. He would get Mycroft back for this, he would.  
  
“Sher? Are you alright?” Molly tugged the sleeve of his hoodie.

 

“Sorry, I was miles away for a minute. I’ve never actually had a birthday party, probably my own fault as I wasn’t a good boy around other children. Apparently I was good at making them cry.”  
  
“Why doesn’t that surprise me Sherlock?” John chipped in sarcastically.  
  
“Oh shut up John. Molly, this is lovely. Better late than never. Do I smell chilli?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“With jalapenos? Sour cream? Tacos? Cheese?”  
  
“The works. Just the way you like it.”  
  
“Great, I’m hungry.”  
  
“Do you want your presents now or later?”  
  
“Oh now, please.”  
  
“Sherlock,  don’t be a twat and start guessing what’s them, Just open them like someone normal please?”  
  
John saw Sherlock’s eyes lighting up and that he was gearing up to be a show-off. Again.  
  
“Alright, alright. Thank you Mrs Hudson.”  
  
He kissed her cheek and opened the envelope which contained a card and £20 in two 10 pound notes.  
  
“I didn’t know what to get you dear, so you can please yourself.”  
  
Molly handed him her present wrapped in dark blue paper. Sherlock ripped it open and held them up. She had bought him a black pair of Levis. “Just as I thought. And they’re in the right size too. Thanks darling.” He kissed her on the cheek and he smiled. “Here’s your card too.” It had a simple picture of a violin on the front and Molly had written Happy 35th birthday Sher. Lots of Love, Molly and Toby. There were 35 kisses. Sherlock privately thought it was cheesy beyond belief although the card was attractive.  
  
The cat wished him happy birthday too? _Really?_    
  
“Molly, a cat can’t wish anyone happy birthday, as friendly as Toby is.”  
  
“You really can go off some people quickly. “What did you get at Waterstones?”  
  
“Cognitive Psychology: Mind and Brain by Edward E. Smith and Stephen M. Kosslyn. I‘ve been looking for this for ages actually.” Sherlock pulled the hefty book out of the bag, held it up and then sat down and started to read it, oblivious to everyone else staring at him and shaking their heads.  
  
“Oh, leave him to it, we’ll get the dinner sorted while he’s quiet and amused” said John. He thought Sherlock had done pretty well to behave himself this long.  
  
John followed Molly and Mrs Hudson into the kitchen and took the pot of warmed chilli through to the table and set it down while Molly and Mrs Hudson made sure that everything was all set out.  
  
“Sherlock, put that book down and come and have your dinner.”  
  
The dinner went without mishap. Sherlock polished off three overstuffed tacos and was about to have another when Molly said he should leave some room. John watched almost fascinated as Molly leaned forward to dab chilli sauce off Sherlock’s chin with a napkin, calling him a mucky pup. If anyone else had done that they would’ve been swatted off and loudly berated. What a difference the right woman could make.  
  
 Molly brought the cake in to the living room with the candles lit and sat down on the table.  
  
“A cake as well? Look at all the sweets on it. How did you know I liked them, Molly?”  
  
“Blow out your candles then close your eyes and make a wish Sher.”  
  
He shut his eyes, actually did and Molly, John and Mrs Hudson clapped.  Molly continued. “Remember that time I went to the cinema with some of the girls from work and I got a big bag of pick and mix? I left it in the kitchen and you were staying over the next night. I think a six foot tall lanky mouse had been eating them because most of them had disappeared by then and I don’t think Toby likes sweets.”  
  
Sherlock pulled a strawberry lace off and chewed it appreciatively. “Are you going to punish me for being a bad boy later?”  
  
Sherlock knew Molly would be embarrassed beyond belief and sniggered.  
  
Just then the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it” said Mrs Hudson.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and popped a cola cube into his mouth as well. “I do hope that’s not Mycroft. Are we expecting anyone?”  
  
“No Sher and don‘t talk with your mouth full. I’m off to the loo.”  
  
Mrs Hudson reappeared with two men in suits. “Sherlock, they’re from that agency that you’ve been working with to catch that nasty child abuser. I looked at their ID cards” she added helpfully.  
  
Sherlock quickly assessed them and narrowed his eyes. Not right, not right at all but of course Mrs Hudson couldn’t be expected to know that. The poor, dear woman had been too trusting. The black suits were of a poor cut and of a cheap material, possibly bought from a supermarket. The shoes were completely unworn and were brand new out of the box, specifically bought for today. But why? The men looked pale and raised on a diet of bad food, nicotine stains on the fingers and the shape of guns -  
  
As Sherlock was just about to open his mouth, the dark haired man to the left tackled Sherlock face down onto the ground and sat on him, shoving his gun onto the base of his neck. The other man forced Mrs Hudson into a chair and held a gun to her head. She started to weep quietly.  
  
“Do anything stupid and I’ll blow this bitch’s brains out. And you - do not move.”  
  
John backed away, hands up. “Who the Hell are you?” Sherlock spat.  
  
“You know Trevor Bennett, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes. And?”  
  
“We don’t like anyone who grasses anyone up to the pigs. And not long after you were nosing round his flat this morning, he told us to check you out. Not hard to find a do-gooder prick like you. We know what you‘ve been up to.”  
  
“Well, I believe they arrested him at about 4 today so this do-gooder prick did a good job, thank you very much indeed.”  
  
This got Sherlock a thump in the back and he yelped. He was desperately worried for Molly, himself less so. He hoped that she had the sense to call the police and get out of the flat.  
  
Molly had gone to the toilet and as she was about to go back into the living room, she had overheard the commotion and stood very still, heart hammering and mind racing. Oh shit. What should she do? She tiptoed into Sherlock’s bedroom and found her phone. She was scared to call the police in case they overheard her. In fact she was bloody terrified full stop. Oh crap. She sat on the bed for a moment thinking hard and then she saw Sherlock’s bedside cabinet. She pulled out a small drawer and found his gun. She weighed it up in her hands. Sherlock had actually showed her how to load it and use it “just in case.” It felt oppressively heavy all of a sudden, but she knew the “just in case” time had come. She slid the phone into her pocket and loaded the gun.  
  
The living room door swung open with a swift kick. Molly’s eyes were Manga huge with fear as she assessed the scene but she braced her feet, pointing the gun at the man still sitting on Sherlock, just as Sherlock showed her. Her knuckles were white.  
  
“And who’s this cunt then?”  
  
“Do NOT talk to her like that!” Sherlock yelled. Another slap.  
  
“You’re hurting my boyfriend and I don’t like it. You’re spoiling his birthday too. Please just leave us alone.”  
  
Molly knew she was gabbling but she kept her aim at the man’s head, shaking like a leaf by now. John took a step towards Molly, aiming to take the gun off her as he was afraid that if she did shoot her aim would be terrible and might hit someone else. He had nothing but admiration for her though. “Molly, give John - “  
  
Sherlock was about to tell her to give John the gun.  
  
He had never loved her more than at this moment.  
  
The man holding the gun to Mrs Hudson’s head suddenly fired twice and Molly crumpled to the ground, eyes startled with both pain and surprise and a dark stain spread over the dark blue of her top. “Sherlock! I‘m…..hurt!”  
  
John immediately dropped down beside her.  
  
“Who the fuck told you to move?”  
  
“I’m a doctor. Let look at her. For Christ’s sake you did not have to do that. She‘s done nothing to you.”  
  
Sherlock was incandescent. He would fucking break their necks for hurting his Molly.  
  
Mrs Hudson was momentarily forgotten as the man holding the gun stood up and pointed it at John. She inched her way towards the very heavy book that John had bought Sherlock and with surprising force, whacked him very hard in the stomach so he crumpled, dropping his gun which she grabbed and pointed at him. The chap sitting on Sherlock stood up in surprise and the next thing he knew was that Sherlock smacked him full force in the face, breaking his nose. “Mrs Hudson, phone for the police and an ambulance. NOW! AND HAND ME THAT GUN!””  
  
John had ripped her embroidered top open to assess the wound and groaned. He had seen enough similar wounds in the Army to know that it looked grave and she was losing a horrifying amount of blood. Her pulse was getting slower and slower and she had fallen unconscious. He had taken off his jumper and had used it to try to staunch the flow of blood. Both men sat up and Sherlock whacked the butt of the pistol at their heads in turn, making them fall down again.  
  
“Sherlock, Molly needs you. Come and sit with her and talk to her. Mrs Hudson, please go outside and watch for the ambulance.” “Right dear, oh poor Molly.” She hurried out.  
  
John felt desperate. There was nothing he could do without any surgical equipment and anything he did do would be futile. “Sherlock? Please talk to her. You’ll be more use to her right now. I’ll keep an eye on these two, give me the gun. Keep an eye on her pulse and breathing.” Sherlock wordlessly passed him the gun and sat next to Molly, picking her hand up and gently held her wrist. “Molly? I’m here, darling. The ambulance is coming…hang in there. Oh God John I can‘t - “  
  
“Sherlock, you’re doing fine mate. Keep going.”  
  
“Molly, you’re going to be alright.”  
  
Sherlock knew otherwise but couldn’t think of anything other than keeping the pretence up. Doing anything else would make him crumble completely.  
  
“Molly, I love you. You’ve given me a wonderful birthday. You were so brave and I’m proud of you.”  
  
“She’s in here.” Mrs Hudson showed the male and female Paramedics in and after them came the police. And Lestrade.  
  
Sherlock wiped away a tear that tricked down his whiter than white face and stood up. “If she dies, I will hold you responsible Lestrade, as I should have been given back up for this case. Molly is my soft white underbelly and they got me through her.”  
  
“She’s stopped breathing!”

 

 

It was 10pm and Mrs Hudson and Sherlock were sitting awkwardly in Mycroft’s very plush living room Mrs Hudson was drinking tea. And Sherlock had been sitting in mute silence, staring straight ahead for about two hours. “Can I get you anything else?” Mycroft asked. Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No thank you, dear. You’ve been very kind.”  
  
“It’s the least I can do. You can’t go back to Baker Street, it’s a crime scene now. You can stay here as long as you need to or I will organise hotel rooms for you all.”  
  
John appeared, looking drained. “I’ve just spoken to Molly’s parents. The police have sent someone out to speak to them at home and they’re driving to St Barts now with Molly‘s sister Lucy. God, I’m a doctor, I’ve had to talk to bereaved parents so many times but this is…so much worse because it’s our Molly.”  
  
Mrs Hudson started to cry again. John gathered her in his arms and she sobbed.  
  
Mycroft knelt beside Sherlock. “How are you doing, old chap?” No response. “John, we’re going to have to really watch him.”  
  
“Has he even been like this before?”  
  
“No, not even when Mother died. I honestly thought he would turn violent when they told him in the hospital that Molly died, if he was going to. But…he just went silent. No tears, nothing. Was he very much in love with her? He wouldn‘t really speak to me too much about her, you know how it is between us. Bit awkward and all that.”  
  
“Yes. He surprised us all there. He wouldn’t really kiss her or anything in front of anyone because I think he felt embarrassed to but I did see them alone together a few times when he thought I couldn’t see and he really did. He adored her.”  
  
Mrs Hudson piped up. “Molly told me this afternoon that they had talked about moving in together but they thought it was better not to as they would fall out quickly if they did. She was such a sweet girl. She was trying to defend him, too.”  
  
John patted Mrs Hudson’s shoulder and went to take a look at Sherlock. Mycroft took John’s place and took her hand. “If you need anything, just ask. I know that you look after my little brother very well and it‘s appreciated, God knows he‘s a handful. Thank you.”  
  
John kneeled down and looked Sherlock over. Apart from blinking, there was no movement. He had gone to the toilet but that was it. “Sherlock, can you hear me at all? I‘m just checking to see if you‘re alright?”  
  
No response.  
  
“Mycroft? A word outside?”  
  
Mycroft followed John outside and John shut the door.  
  
“I think he’s disassociating. It happens as a response to trauma and to put it simply, people retreat inside their minds and can function at some level but they will have no memory of events and aren’t really mentally present at all. It’s more common in other personality disorders rather than Sherlock’s but it’s entirely possible this is happening. The mind is very protective and it’s protecting him now. I think there will be a delayed reaction to this later and the grief will hit him like a bloody sledgehammer.”  
  
“Do you think we need to see if we can get him an on duty psychiatrist? I really would rather keep him out of hospital if we can. He has been sectioned before.”  
  
“I didn’t actually know that.”  
  
“Yes, after his finals. He basically poured everything he had into studying and wouldn’t sleep or eat and he just collapsed completely and he was threatening to stab himself with his penknife and anyone who came near him. He said that he couldn’t stand what was going on in his head anymore. The atmosphere on the wards isn’t great…it would affect him terribly.  Father arranged to get him transferred to a private room in the end, it was then he got the diagnosis of being a highly functioning sociopath or correctly having Anti Social Personality Disorder. Oh and of course he got a First.”  
  
“I agree with you. I did stints on psychiatric wards and I think the sight of people being really out of control will make him feel overloaded. There’s no need to admit him unless he’s at risk. I won’t leave him, Mycroft. I’m going to give him some sleeping tablets and I’ll share a bed with him if I have to. I’d better get back to him.”  
  
A telephone rang from further away in the building.  
  
“I’d better get that, it‘s coming from the office. I imagine that’s Molly’s parents at St Bart’s. I’ll go over. John?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I think Irene Adler was what Sherlock wanted but Molly Hooper was what he _needed._ ”  
  
It was 2am. Sherlock had allowed himself to be guided towards a bed and John had taken his Converse off and then helped him into bed, tucking the quilt round him. John had watched carefully as Sherlock was given sleeping tablets and took them, washing them down with a  tumbler of water then had gone to the toilet. He had pretty much gone to sleep instantly and was still asleep when John had came back from the bathroom,  got into the other side of the bed and turned the light off. Mrs Hudson was in the room next door and John had told her to knock on the door if she felt upset at all during the night. She had also taken some sleeping tablets gratefully.  
  
But Sherlock hadn’t been asleep and hadn’t taken the sleeping tablets. He had hidden them in his cheek and then spat them out in the toilet. He waited until it was clear that everyone was asleep. He had been disassociating, which he had done since he was a little boy when the world got too much. It had given him time and space to think. His darling Molly had died in the ambulance and Sherlock had watched helplessly as the paramedics had fought to save her. He had at least been there for her in her final moments and she had drifted off in a haze of morphine. He blinked back a sudden rush of tears. He couldn’t afford sentiment now. There would be time enough at the funeral where it would be expected that he would be the grieving partner. Yes…although they had never lived together they had utterly belonged to each other. He had once quoted Kahil Gibran to her: “Let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.”  It had been a Sunday morning when Sherlock had brought Molly breakfast in bed. She had been so pleased with him…  
  
He also knew with unflinching certainty that he would never love anyone again. He had given far too much of himself to ever be shared.  
  
His birthday wish had simply been for them to be happy.  
  
 He could just see by the light filtering in from the street and tugged on the Converse. It had also been so easy to grab his gun in the confusion and hide it in his hoodie. He had his phone, cards and keys. He slinked out of the room, padded down the hall and gently eased turned the key in the door. He was out in the street, stupidly easily. John had not stirred. Old friend, no-one can save me now from what I have to do. He quickly tapped a text out, pulled his hoodie up and disappeared into the night.  
  
John didn’t hear his phone beeping and panicked when he saw Sherlock was gone. He grabbed his phone. He didn’t put it on silent, Sherlock must have.  Oh Jesus God NO.  
  
“MYCROFT? MYCROFT! CALL THE POLICE, SHERLOCK’S GONE!”  
 **  
An eye for an eye. SH.**


End file.
